


the devil won't let me be

by breenwolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbating, bottom!Derek, sexual awakening, stiles sexually fantasizing about derek hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:59:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breenwolf/pseuds/breenwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Halloween, Stiles has two questions that need answering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the devil won't let me be

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write a story about stiles exploring the new idea of possibly being into guys while staying true to the non-heteronormative teen wolf universe. this is the result.
> 
> this takes place immediately after the end of 316.
> 
> you can follow me on tumblr @ [breenwolf](http://breenwolf.tumblr.com).

He doesn’t think about it.

Sure, there’s at least a twenty-five percent chance that he left that message on the chalkboard _for_ Barrow, _for_ the purpose of sending Barrow after Kira, but odds are just as good that he left that message for himself, right? That his subconscious had left the note, like breadcrumbs, to put Stiles on the right path when he inevitably went looking.

But the truth of the matter is simple: he just. doesn’t. know.

And maybe that’s for the best, he thinks, all through Spanish III. Maybe he doesn’t want to know why his subconscious wants to control serial killers or-- equally terrifying in some respects-- has started leaving clues for conscious-Stiles to find.

Ignorance is bliss, after all.

Though it doesn’t feel blissful walking through the halls, avoiding Scott, keeping his head down, and spending the entire day in a lowgrade panic, like the tide is rising and he’s helpless to move out of its wake.

It’s equally possible, he reminds himself during Calculus, that Kira’s the bad guy in all of this. Barrow might have been a freaking lunatic, but if it turns out that Kira’s been sent here to kill them all? Maybe Stiles’s subconscious was just trying to do them a solid by getting Barrow to do the dirty work. It’s not like the dude was ever getting out of jail after his little shrapnel stunt, anyway.

During lunch he watches Kira, watches her explain the plot of _Star Wars_ to Scott in vivid detail, with big eyes and hand gestures, watches her smile to herself every time Scott contributes to the conversation. She doesn’t raise any red flags for him, really. Not like Matt had, anyway. And, truth be told, not like Mrs. Blake.

Though, honestly, fifty percent of Stiles’s suspicion of _her_ had to do with her interest in Derek. Takes a special sort of fucked up to see the appeal there, in his opinion.

(And as things turned out, of course, he wasn’t _wrong_ about that.)

In physics, he shifts air from cheek to cheek and thinks about handwriting. Like, what are the odds that his handwriting looks like someone else’s? He cranes his neck to check his phone discreetly while he hides it under his desk, thumbs to the photo he took of the blackboard, and considers the 5s written there. Consciously, Stiles didn’t pick up his hand once while making his 5. It’s essentially an S, there, only discernable as a number because of the context. The other five, however, is clearly a two-line five, with the top bar being drawn after the rest of the 5.

So, maybe someone else has handwriting that’s exactly like his… except for the 5s?

Is that even possible?

“Stilinski,” Finstock snaps him out of his thoughts during economics, “did I miss the notice?”

Stiles blinks at him, screws his face up trying to parse that. “The what, coach?”

“The notice that my class is now _Contemporary English Literature_ ,” coach all but yells, reading the title off of Stiles’s English textbook. Which he brought to his economics class.

“Oh, uh, whoops?”

“Uh-huh. 'Whoops' is right,” coach says, eyes bugging in that way they do. “Get your ass out of here and go get the right book.”

Stiles flees.

The key is back in his locker, now with the keyring pulled over one of the hooks. Stiles looks at it. It’s hard, staring at it, to not remember the moment he realized how phosphors might have gotten on it.

He gets his book, slams his locker shut, and doesn’t think about it.

*****

The first thing he does when he gets home is look Caitlin up on Facebook. All things considered, it’s kind of an antiquated way of doing things, but the method is tried and true, and Caitlin surprsingly doesn’t have her entire profile locked down with privacy settings.

Timeline, of course, is a goddamn mess, so he’s not going to bother with checking her statuses (besides, what’s he even hoping to find there? _Made out with super cute, totally considerate dude while blackout drunk at the Halloween party last night!!!_? Yeah, right, okay), so he keeps it simple.

Caitlin is eighteen, attending Beacon County Community College for the semester, and is listed as It’s Complicated under her relationship status, which-- damn. That’s heavy.

Stiles thinks: if my girlfriend got ritually sacrificed for being a virgin, I’d probably call it 'complicated', too.

Caitlin had smelled like chemicals, sweat, and beer when she’d kissed him with a smile, but her profile picture is still of her and Emily, arms wrapped around each other, smiling as big as their faces will let them.

Stiles had asked, “Are you okay?” and Caitlin had said, “I’m really drunk!”

With a sigh, Stiles lets go of the little hope-- the tiny, admittedly stupid hope he’d been holding that whatever happened the other night could have a chance of happening again. Even if she were sober, even if she came onto him in her right mind, Stiles was in too deep now.

It’s the right thing to do, letting go of that hope, but he sulks anyway. Pities himself, even. Kicks around in his computer chair and puts off his homework until he has to break down and do it.

He works until his dad knocks on his door and says, “You hungry?”

Stiles snorts. “Only all the time.”

“Well, dinner’s ready,” his dad says with a smile. “Pasta Stilinski.”

Stiles smiles, pulls himself out of his deep wallow, and goes downstairs with his father.

*****

His dad has the fourth shift that night, so he’s still home when Stiles announces he’s going to bed, but he leaves around one in the morning while Stiles is still awake, guiltily stalking Caitlin on Facebook.

It’s not that he can’t let the idea of her, romantically, go. That’s dead and buried-- which, wow, that’s kind of a joke of poor taste considering, well, you know.

It’s just that he wants to know her. Can’t shake the feeling of her under his skin, like an itch he can’t scratch. And, if anyone were to ask (if they had any inkling, that is), he’d say he didn’t know what it was, he just liked her. But, if he’s being honest with himself, he knows why. He knows there’s a reason he’s looking at pictures Caitlin was tagged in in 2006; he knows there’s a reason he’s got six of her friends’ Facebooks opened in other tabs.

_But you also like boys?  
 **Absolutely.**_

And, if he goes far back enough, Stiles can see the boys of Caitlin’s past-- Elijah in 2009, some dude named Graham in 2008-- but they both have locked profiles, so there’s no stalking to be had there. So he’s left with Caitlin’s Facebook, with the half-answers he finds there. It’s more frustrating than anything, honestly, because--

**_Do you?_ **

He snaps his laptop shut and rubs a hand roughly over his mouth.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, out loud, to the empty room, hoping that if he says it, he’ll actually do it.

Well, he crawls into bed, anyway. Stares at the ceiling and listens to the soft sounds of the fan cycling since he can’t fall asleep to silence anymore.

He thinks, into the ether, where it’s private and his, that he might like boys. But what does he know about that?

He knows he likes girls-- knows it in his bones, in his blood. He likes girls, likes the softness of their skin against his and how small they can be in his arms. He likes the idea of curling around a girl, making her feel safe and loved. And, though he doesn’t know, he thinks he’d like to press inside a girl, feel her nails down his back and her breath against his ear and make her come, then taste her afterwards. He doesn’t know, yeah, but he knows, you know?

Liking girls has never been a question, so he never went looking for an answer.

But-- the idea of-- of _both_?

It’s novel, and a little exciting and a little overwhelming, all at once. He feels a lot like a dog who’s been told not to climb on the couch his whole life and is now getting invited up onto the cushions-- like he can’t _not_ be suspicious of it. Like it’s too easy, too good to be true.

That he could have _both_.

And, as he thinks about it in his room, under the blanket of darkness cast there, it feels like a revelation. Whatever half-formed thoughts or fleeting ideas he’s had in the past about dudes in his life come flying at him at about a hundred miles an hour, so he throws his head back and closes his eyes against them. Thinks, _Danny in seafoam_ and _Scott’s basketball shorts_ and-- kind of bitterly-- _Isaac’s face_.

It feels dirty, thinking about people he knows like this. Usually he keeps his late night fantasizing to girls he only half-knows, that he passes in the halls, whose personalities are little more than a blank white page he can project his desires onto.

He’s sixteen, so being horny is sort of a perpetual thing. It isn’t hard to get hard, and now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t not think about it, so he settles in for the ride, kicking down his comforter and checking that his lotion and tissues are on the shelf he likes to keep them by dragging his knuckles against the shelves over his head.

The shirt goes, then his pants. He takes a deep breath and touches a cool hand to his chest.

And, in the comfort of darkness, Stiles thinks about boys.

It’s awkward at first, trying to do it deliberately. Touching the bones of his hips and thinking ScottIsaacDanny in kind of a wild, manic way, where his brain can’t quite settle on any or all of them. But it feels good, brushing his fingers there, letting them skirt under the band of his boxers. He thinks, hilariously, _what would I do if the dude I was boning was wearing the same boxers as me?_ and he’s smiling, warm, as he curls his fingers around himself.

 _This isn’t working_ , he thinks not a minute later, frustrated, even though he’s hard and can feel himself starting to flush all over. _I’m doing it wrong, probably_ is there even a right way to jerk off to dudes you know? Is that-- can you not _not_ mess that up somehow?

But Stiles isn’t really a vague guy, when it comes to fantasies. Normally, he gets himself going off the idea of a girl being sexual to him, being _desirous_ of him. The idea that a girl could lust after him and would use him to pleasure herself generally sets the premise for any and all things Stiles thinks about when he’s jerking it.

So, maybe it should be like that?

So he breathes, slowly, through his nose, and he sets up a slow rhythm that he usually likes to take at night, when he can drag it out. For a while, it’s simple: the feeling of his dick in his hand, the soft skin moving with each stroke, the occasional slickness of precum easing the way if only for a few seconds. Simple, familiar. He loses himself in it, mindless, without any sort of fantasy, and arches into his hand, groans when he presses his thumb to a sweet spot just under the head of his dick.

Having a dad who pulled a lot of overnight hours had spoiled him, maybe, just a little, on not having to be quiet all the time.

He thinks he’d be noisy, in bed. Maybe not a talker, though who knows, really. But definitely noisy. He can barely keep himself from whining when he starts fucking his own fist, as it is. Add another person into that, and God. They’ll have to hold him down and _gag_ him--

And, on his life, Stiles doesn’t mean to, but he’s got boys on the brain and for _whatever_ reason, thinking about being gagged makes him think of Derek.

“Oh, fuck, _nope_ ,” he hisses, taking his hand off of his dick immediately. Because there’s a line and then there’s a line, and Stiles might not know how he feels about boys, but how he feels about Derek is an even bigger mess, and he’s not going to touch that with a ten-foot pole, let alone his dick.

Besides, Derek would probably be brutal in bed, right? Dude’s got muscles on muscles and fangs, and while Stiles might be tentatively introducing himself to the possibility of Dudes-with-a-capital-D-- violent, angsty sex isn’t his thing at all.

Not that Stiles’s dick seems to care; it’s still hard enough he can mostly make out the shape of it even though there’s next to no light in his room.

“ _No_ ,” he tells it. “Not happening.”

But that just makes it feel illicit, like he’s getting away with something if he fucks his hand and thinks about Derek, and Stiles _loves_ getting away with things.

He wonders: how would Derek fuck me? Then shies away from that thought immediately. Maybe he doesn’t want to be fucked, okay. Maybe he just wants a nice, sweet blow job, wants to see Derek hollowing out his cheeks as he tries to take more of Stiles’s cock into his mouth.

The thought pulls a strangled sound out of Stiles, who shimmys out of his boxers, spits into his hand and starts to jerk off again while thinking about the Derek’s mercurial eyes and the way they’d look if Derek looked up at him from under his lashes. It’s--- Stiles’s brain is clearly fucked because he can’t picture a single scenario in which Derek Hale wouldn’t look sweet on his knees for him. Sweet, like he loves it, sweet like he needs it and will do anything-- including play nice-- to get it.

The idea that maybe Derek wouldn’t want to fuck Stiles, but would, maybe, want it the other way around hits Stiles like an eighteen wheeler, sends him careening off the path he was tentatively beating down for himself straight into a fucking _frenzy_ of lust.

Suddenly, it’s not enough. He can’t fuck into the circle of his hands to the rhythm of his fantasies; arching his back and pressing his shoulders into the mattress isn’t enough, not by a long shot. He takes his hand off his dick, gritting his teeth a little as he does, and rolls onto his stomach which is--- closer. Better.

It’s impossible to fathom what Derek would be like under Stiles’s hands-- in the past he’s been furious and desperate in equal turns-- but Stiles wants to believe he’d like it. Wants to think Derek would want Stiles pressed all down his back, that he’d _beg_ for it if he had to.

 _Lotion,_ Stiles thinks wildly, groping above his head in the dark for the pump on the Jergens. He manages to find it, gets a line of lotion across his knuckles, then another over his palm and wrist for his efforts.

He thinks, if _I fucked Derek, I’d probably have to get real lube,_ as he gets his hand under himself, his wrist bent awkwardly against the mattress. For a long, slick minute, he forgets the fantasy almost entirely in favor of the mindlessness that comes with fucking into his fist.

The fantasy creeps back in, though, splashing images of Derek doubled over, elbows down and ass up, hiding his face but incapable of hiding the flush curling over his shoulders, beneath the triskele on his back. When he thinks about girls, the fantasy for Stiles is all about a beautiful person being overcome with lust for _him._ This is more or less the same, only, if he’s being honest, Derek might be the most objectively beautiful person he’s ever seen.

(It’s hard to be objective while thinking about Derek all but _presenting_ himself, using two hands to spread himself open and -- and --)

“Ohmy _god_ ,” Stiles gasps, and he has to slow down or he’s going to come, he’s going to come right then and he doesn’t want to, not yet.

He takes his hand off himself again, and suddenly he’s aware of the sound of his breathing, loud and sharp over the whirring of the fan. He’s got sweat behind his ears, at his hairline, in the tender underside of his knees, and pooling at the base of his spine.

The fantasy plays on in his mind, though where before it was visual, Stiles can’t help now but to wonder what Derek would say, what he would sound like as he tried to get Stiles to push inside of him.

Stiles would make him ask nicely, probably. He’s saved Derek’s life, like, four times now. The least Derek could do in return is beg for it, spread his knees and arch his back, say _Stiles, goddammit, please, just -- please, **Stiles**_.

He wants Derek to say his name, wants him gone for all other words but his name.

“Oh, god,” he says in the darkness of his room, burying his face in his pillow. He’s always-- Derek saying his name always got under Stiles’s skin. It always-- it sounded different, coming from him. Sounded like a curse and a benediction all at once; sounded like a foreign tongue. Before, Stiles just figured it bugged him because Derek bugged him.

Turns out, he thinks, rocking his hips against the mattress slowly, almost unconsciously, he maybe just wanted to make Derek say it all the time. In private--

Or, hell, maybe not. Maybe Derek would want it all the time, once Stiles started giving it to him. Maybe he’d grab Stiles out of the hallway at school one day, pull him into Coach’s office, push Stiles down, and climb right on top.

In his room, alone, Stiles finds it shockingly easy to picture the tender skin below Derek’s chin, to imagine Derek’s head being thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open so Stiles can see a flash of his front teeth. It’s easy to imagine tearing open Derek’s jeans to get a hand around his dick, not even caring about how hard he’s getting, just wanting to make Derek come, wanting to get Derek to that edge.

And Stiles feels a flicker of guilt, maybe, as he all-out humps against his sheets, fists his hands in his pillows and teases himself with the softness of his bed, gritting his teeth against the urge to work himself over with his hand again. He doesn’t-- he doesn’t want to objectify Derek. The last thing Derek needs is someone fantasizing about using him for their own desires.

Stiles thinks, a little sex-crazed, _No, no, I’d make it good. I’d make him feel so good, though._

He realizes, with a sudden clarity, that he _wants_ to make Derek feel good. Wants to see Derek’s hips pumping into the curl of his hands, wants to talk to Derek about how pretty he is, wants to kiss the sweat off of Derek’s temple and tell him about all the things he thinks about the way Derek’s ass looks in those jeans and-----

 _Fuck_ , it’s a lot of realization at once. Stiles adjusts himself on the bed, gets his knees under himself enough to bring his cock off the bed, to give him some room to really work when he gets his hand around himself again. He keeps his face buried in the crook of his elbow, though, as if the harder he presses against his eyes, the more clear the pictures in his head might become.

The pictures of Derek scrabbling to get his hands wrapped around the headboard, laid out flat while Stiles slides his dick up and down the crack of his ass in the slowest, sweetest sort of torture. The pictures of Derek turning his head to suck deep, heavy lungfuls in while Stiles fingered him open (would Derek cry? Stiles kind of wants Derek to cry for him. God, that’s fucked up, isn’t it?

Stiles knows he’s got weeks of Googling “how to find a man’s prostate” ahead of him because he has no clue how fantasy!Stiles is going to blow Derek’s mind, he just has a hazy dream of it happening. Of him getting up inside Derek and making Derek mewl, making Derek say, “Fuck,” because Stiles has never heard him say it, and he wants to. Wants to make Derek filthy, wants to make Derek so needy he can’t stop himself.

The curl of his hand is tight and good, exactly how Stiles likes, but he rears up anyway, sits back on his haunches, and spreads his knees to better suit the fantasy of hauling Derek up, getting Derek’s sweaty back against Stiles’s chest, because Stiles wants to make Derek work for it, wants to make Derek roll his hips down and make himself come using Stiles. Wants to see the look on Derek’s face when he lets himself take, when he gets his bearings while spread out over Stiles’s laps and starts to fuck.

Stiles wants badly to get an arm around Derek’s chest and a hand at Derek’s waist; he wants to pull Derek back down onto his dick every time Derek gets too far away. He wants his temple pressed to Derek’s, wants Derek’s head lashing and his throat and face red and blotchy, wants Derek sucking in breaths so sharp and fast that they almost sound like Stiles’s name.

He wants to make Derek come-- and, god, he wants to do it without either of them putting a hand to Derek’s dick. He wants Derek’s come in the sheets and Derek’s fingers digging into Stiles’s arms where they’re holding him. He wants to slow his thrusts down, try to be conscientious of how sensitive Derek will be post-orgasm, but he wants Derek to whine, wants Derek to beg him to keep going, wants Derek to pull Stiles into the filthiest fucking kiss-----

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Stiles gasps like a fish out of water,  “gonna come, fuck, gonna fucking-- _yes!_ ”

He comes spectacularly, can feel the come slipping between his fingers as his body goes tight all over. It punches through him, makes his toes curl and his arms tremble and his breath stop, whites out his vision until there’s nothing but sweet, dreamless darkness.

*****

“ _Stiles_ ,” someone hisses, kicking his seat sharply, and Stiles startles awake, jerks around to find Lydia staring at him. She looks concerned and maybe a little annoyed, but Stiles doesn’t think about that.

He looks around, sees that he’s wearing a white shirt he hasn’t worn in weeks. He notices the way the sun filters through the windows of the calculus classroom. He stares at his fingers and counts them: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He hears the starting bell when it rings not a second later, sharp and loud, but he’s not listening.

The clock on the wall has a hand pointing at 10 and a hand pointing at 2.

Stiles remembers coming his fucking brains out thinking about Derek Hale riding his cock desperate and needy, saying Stiles’s name over and over again, leaning in for an open-mouthed kiss--- and precisely nothing else.

 

 

 

 


End file.
